


Nothing More, Nothing Less

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Series: is it true? [4]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Ryden, Rydon, some cabin era shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 11:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: Six weeks in a rural cabin in Mount Charleston, Nevada is bound to get anyone a little crazy, a little sulky.Especially when two of those anyones still have things left unsaid.





	Nothing More, Nothing Less

**Author's Note:**

> i seem to be on a roll of oneshots these days, so i hope you enjoy this one!

Straight ahead are treetops, for as far as I can see, an ocean of leaves and branches in which I wouldn’t be able to drown even if I tried to. Maybe if I get irremediably lost in the mountains, a wood nymph will take pity on me and pull me into a tree to live there forever. 

 

A slight breeze makes me shiver, and I catch myself wishing I’d brought a jacket with me. I don’t say it out loud, though. Keeping things quiet is still a habit, albeit one formed years ago.  

 

_I told you to bring a jacket_ , he’d say if I complained about being cold. So I shut up. Learned to deal with my mistakes in silence. 

 

But silence clearly isn’t working out for us right now, because I feel Brendon and Jon sitting behind me, staring at the exact same expanse of green as I am, maybe minus the morbid thoughts and the Roman mythology. The wind through the trees makes that familiar whooshing sound, and it’s usually reassuring but now it just reminds me of everything we’re not saying. We came up here on the rooftop, as though being a little higher up will let us see things from a different perspective. As though it’ll solve our problems because we can pretend we’re just a little closer to God. 

 

We never are, and it never does. 

 

We should know that by now. It’s been six weeks. Songs just sit there, unplayed, untouched, because none of us want to do anything about them. Apathy has become our daily companion, and we’ve lacked the motivation to tell it it has overstayed its welcome. 

 

“I’m cold,” I say eventually, just to say something, because I know no one else will. Jon is too comfortable with silences and Brendon— well, I can’t seem to figure Brendon out. 

 

At one point, I thought I had. It used to be so easy back then, when all he wanted was my mouth on his and me inside him. But he changed, and I didn’t. I met someone, and he didn’t. So we hung there, not really knowing what that meant for either of us. 

 

I couldn’t let him go; I knew that much, but Keltie was something else entirely. If Brendon was one of the bricks that built me, Keltie is the cement that holds me together. A house can do with one less brick. Try and build a whole ass house without any cement. 

 

I stop blinking, letting my eyes dry out before welling up, because my body knows how to take care of myself better than my brain does. I feel the tears in my eyes, let them overflow and run down my cheeks. Some of them drip off my face, landing on my clothes. One lands on my hand, warm for a second before turning ice cold. I don’t bother to look. Don’t wipe them away, either; they can stay where they are. Dry out where they fell. 

 

“Me, too,” Jon says eventually, and I hear him getting up. “I’m gonna go get blankets.” 

 

“Thanks.” I turn my head back just enough to see him carefully making his way to the only access to the roof, the lower part against which we put an old metallic ladder. 

 

I see Brendon’s face ever so briefly and regret it immediately. He hasn’t moved at all, sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, and he stares towards the horizon, like he’s waiting for someone. I turn back to the mountains and trees but all I can picture is his steady gaze, those warm brown eyes that look like they could convince you you’re in love with them if they wanted to, even if it’s just for one night. I can see the hair falling into his face, the ever-so-slightly wavy texture of it now that he’s stopped straightening it just because his idols used to. 

 

I hear him standing up and my heart sinks, surprising me. I don’t want anything he does to have an impact on me, yet _everything_ he does has an impact on me. I analyse every movement, every look, every silence and every word. He must feel like this is too awkward, too uncomfortable. He can’t even be alone in the same goddamn space as me anymore. That’s how bad I fucked up, huh? 

 

I wait for the light footsteps to move away, but they don’t. Instead, they get closer and soon enough he appears by my side, sitting down right next to me. I don’t look at him. Pray that the tears have already dried so he won’t ask any questions and I won’t waste my breath telling him that I just do that, sometimes. For no reason. 

 

“I wanted to apologise for what I said to you,” he says, and I turn my head to look at him. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s staring at his feet. Swallows with difficulty. I already know what he’s about to say. “Uh, the other night. It was selfish and stupid and I’m sorry.” 

 

I shrug like it’s nothing, although we both know it isn’t. I remember the heartbreaking sincerity in his eyes, I remember his words even if I don’t want to. I’ve played it over and over in my head too many times since. 

 

_I love you. I love you for everything you are, Ryan, nothing more and nothing less._

 

I should’ve told him to stop, but I was frozen in place. Good thing I’m not anymore. 

 

“Wasn’t selfish,” I tell him, and the roles are reversed now; he’s the one looking at me and I’m the one staring at something else. My hands. My sleeves. Anything. Funny how we can’t even have a conversation where we look each other in the eye. “Or stupid.” I pause, thinking about what to say before lifting my eyes to look at him, really look. At his eyes, his nose, his lips. The light stubble covering his chin. I can still remember what it feels like against my skin. “I actually think it’s really fucking brave.” 

 

A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth. There’s a spark of malice mixed with relief in his eyes, something that eases the knot in my chest. He rests his chin on his shoulder. “And I wasn’t high, either, so I get double points for bravery there.” 

 

I laugh. “Yeah, you do. Maybe even triple ‘cause I wasn’t either.” 

 

He chuckles as well and I feel my shoulders relax as we fall into a comfortable silence, realising how tense I was this entire time. I don’t really know what I expected; another confession? Take-backs? I know I would’ve tried to pretend it was all a prank if I were in his place. 

 

But no, Brendon owns up to the shit he says; he wears his heart on his sleeve, unashamed and unafraid. I admire him for that. 

 

I admire him for so many things, really. 

 

I admire him for the ease with which his fingers run on piano keys, on guitar necks, the fluidity of his movements as he crosses the stage, even when he stumbles. How he makes everything seem like it’s child play, like the world is set on easy mode for him and him only. Only I know it isn’t. 

 

I admire him for the way he is onstage, the effortless yet sincere words he says into the microphone between two songs. For the courage with which he stood up and told his parents that he didn’t believe in the God they did, and how at seventeen he moved out even though he loved them. At seventeen, I knew nothing. 

 

I admire him for the way he loves so freely, unafraid to offer up his heart for a world that has too little, even if said world has a nasty history of breaking them. 

 

“I still want you,” I blurt out suddenly, and his head turns to look at me, his eyes wide. 

 

Fuck. Shit. 

 

“Are you sure you’re not high right now?” He jokes, but it falls flat. My fault. My bad. When’s Jon coming back? 

 

I think of what I literally just realised moments ago about owning up to things I say. So I do, partly to make him proud, even though he’ll never know about it. 

 

“Not high,” I say, though I kind of wish I was, because it’s always so much easier to blame all the stupid sentences on drugs instead of a sober, inexcusable mind. “If you’re still down, I am.” 

 

An entire fucking freight train of questions crosses his eyes but he doesn’t say anything and I refrain from letting out a nervous laugh. Man. Oh, man. 

 

Did I just really tell him we can sleep together again? Even if Keltie—

 

She’s far away right now. It’s okay. It’s fine. She doesn’t have to know. 

 

We hear the creak of the ladder as Jon wobbles back up, carrying a pile of blankets. Spencer’s behind him, probably finally done with his shower, the first in about a week. I’ve seen better hygiene, but it’s not like we do much during the day anyway. 

 

“I’ll see you at midnight on the porch,” Brendon whispers as he stands up to go help Jon, touching my shoulder so lightly that if I hadn’t become hyper-aware of everything he does around me again, I wouldn’t have noticed at all. 

 

I grab the blanket Jon hands me and wrap it around my shoulders before looking back at the darkening sky. I smile at the idea of having him close again. I hadn’t let myself realise how much I missed it.

 

Midnight. 

 

I can do midnight. 

 

The moon is already there, its silvery crescent hanging high in the celestial vault, just waiting for the stars to appear. Maybe we can never get near the one people call God, but the stars are brighter and more beautiful up here than anywhere else in the world, almost like we could reach out and pick one to keep for someone deserving. 

 

I’d rather be close to the stars. 


End file.
